


Grief For a Life Lost

by Setheneran (ladyredms)



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, sarcastic pro mage male rogue Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyredms/pseuds/Setheneran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Spoilers for all of Dragon Age II, and mid-game Dragon Age: Inquisition)</p><p>Some time has passed since the events in Kirkwall, and Anders is beginning to realize how much it's all changed Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grief For a Life Lost

Anders couldn't get the thought out of his head.

Hawke had always been sarcastic, resolute humor curling his lips in a careless grin at the oddest things and the most dangerous situations. One only really saw the man angry - steel-sharp and quiet - when his loved ones were in danger, or when reality sunk in too deep to laugh.

He'd laughed at the Arishok, mocked Meredith to her face, even made jokes at the damn King of Ferelden. He was this ... exquisite enigma, bearing so much weight and yet never admitting it sagged him. Anders had always thought it beautiful… and sad.

Hawke used humor like a fortress, shielding himself from pain and keeping the high walls up so no one else saw him suffer. Anders had always felt this tender link between them, like he was sneaking over those walls and stepping into the depths of his beloved rogue - a place where they could both divest themselves of all the complex trappings of life and touch, bare and pure.

When, then, did he change? Did it happen overnight, or was Anders ignorant of his slow descent?

It wasn’t that Hawke had fallen out of love with him. He could no more deny that than deny his own passion for the man; in the dark of night, they made love like it was that first time all over again. Hawke enveloped him and filled him, hiding them both under the sheets, hot breaths formed into words of devotion.

It was everywhere else that Hawke was different, these days.

His voice was calmer, but emptier, a seriousness suffusing his attitude. There were lines on his forehead that Anders didn’t remember, and his brows seemed permanently tensed. He rarely joked, and when he did… it wasn’t a shield. It was a weapon. Lances and arrows, shot straight into chinks in armor, aimed to do the most damage with that wry tone. Aimed to hurt - not mock.

It was different. And it was bothering Anders. They’d both changed, sure; being fugitives tended to have that effect, and their work in rescuing mages and egging Circles on to rebel was … hard. Harder than Anders would have ever guessed. It was like fighting through a mire, and they weren’t always welcomed with open arms.

Some people hated them. Cursed them. Anders had anticipated the blame; he knew some were content to live under the heel of the Templars, and their ire didn’t shake his resolve. That didn’t mean it was easy to look into the eyes of someone who had lost a loved one to the Kirkwall rebellion or hear the stories of the lives turned upside-down by the chaos.

It didn't faze him.

He dreamed of a better world for mages, and if that meant burning down the current one, then Anders would be the catalyst. No regrets.

Did Hawke have regrets, though? Was that why he seemed so distant in quiet moments, and so solemn when he talked? Anders sometimes still believed he would wake up one day, and discover Hawke’s loyalty was just a sweet fantasy. It wouldn’t shock him if Hawke was second-guessing Anders… maybe even the choice to be with him at all.

He expected it, really.

The winding path they were following through the hills was an old merchant’s trail, worn to bare dirt by caravans passing through with the seasons. It was a much longer route between cities, but safer and less likely to be patrolled than some of the major roads. There was always the risk of bandits, but that seemed a minor concern.

Anders imagined a voice in the back of his head going “ _If bandits attack us on the way, you can just glow and yell scary things at them. They’ll all run off to their mothers._ ” in that mocking tone. That sultry look in gold-brown eyes; that sly grin.

The Hawke of now had shrugged. “ _Bandits are no trouble. It’ll be fine._ ” He’d spoken … flatly. Not cold, just matter-of-fact. He hadn’t even stopped sharpening his knives, or looked up for more than a cursory glance at Anders.

They’d been traveling for almost a day now, and Anders had spent most of the time rolling these thoughts around in his head like heavy stones. They were smooth as marbles now, and it was with his words finally arranged together in an orderly fashion that he spoke up.

“Hawke?”

They rode atop two sleek parade horses they’d stolen from a farm that had supplied the Kirkwall honor guard for special occasions. Hawke’s was a sun-baked golden mare, Anders’ a speckled white-and-brown paint gelding. They were slim; bred more for looks than speed and strength.

Aveline had insisted. Better they steal from the guard than some poor farmer, she’d said, in that ‘I’m-helping-you-but-I’m-still-angry-with-you’ tone that was all Anders heard anymore. She was desperately loyal to Hawke - (and to him only by extension, Anders was fairly sure) - but that didn’t stop her from snubbing her nose at their actions when the chance arose.

Hawke tipped his head to the side without looking back. They wore dark hooded cloaks, enough to disguise them if they passed someone on the road. The season was turning cold, anyway, so they didn’t look inconspicuous. “Yes?”

The rebel mage frowned, reaching forward to grab ahold of the reins of his horse. He bounced his hips and flapped the leather reins against the steed’s shoulders, and it obediently picked up pace. They were exceedingly well-trained, and it smartly took up a place in line next to its golden counterpart.

Hawke looked at him then, eyes bright under the lip of his hood. The horses walked amicably alongside each other, tails gently whipping at their flanks.

“Are you alright?” Anders pressed, reaching a hand up to grab ahold of his own hood and tug it down. He shook his head a little and brushed a few stray strands of hair he could feel clinging to stubble on his cheek. “You’ve been… distant.”

The rogue arched up a brow, letting his forearms fall crossed over his lap and leaning back slightly. “Not much to say, is there? We’ve still a few hours left til Markham.”

Anders pinched his lips together. Okay, he’d _had_ his words together. Not so much now, with those cool eyes staring him down. “Not.. now. That’s not what I mean. I meant - in general.”

“Distant in general?” he repeated, and Anders couldn’t stop a soft exhale. He felt entirely sure Hawke was playing dumb to exasperate him.

“Just… you’re very serious these days. You’ve never been a somber person. That’s my job.” He smiled, glancing quickly down at his hands and clasping his fingers over the saddlehorn. Broaching the subject made him suddenly very nervous.

There was a moment of rather indelicate silence, where Hawke inspected his face and reached up to rake his fingers through his beard. The longer Hawke examined him the more certain Anders was that he was irritated with him, but the rogue’s voice was calm when he finally spoke.

“Why is this coming up now?”

Anders shrugged his shoulders, putting his weight on the stirrups to half-stand so he could adjust his position on the saddle. “I’ve just been thinking about it. I keep remembering how things were before the rebellion. I feel like you -“ His voice dropped. He felt ashamed and wasn’t wholly sure why. “… laughed more, back then.”

Hawke sighed at that, reaching up to pinch at his forehead with fingertips, glancing forward at the road stretching on ahead. There was a shift of emotion underneath the surface. “Maybe. Things haven’t been easy. You know that.”

Taking advantage of the shift of his gaze, Anders looked up, examining the man hesitantly. “The situation with the mages, or…” he spoke softly. Hawke’s jaw went stiff, eyes slitting gently. Anders felt like he'd touched on the truth and pressed harder. “I told you we’d be hunted… I warned you we'd never-"

He bit his lip when Hawke rounded on him slightly, turning at the waist in his saddle. “I remember what you said.” His voice was harder now, words coming a little too quickly. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you, Anders. Things are fine. Let it be.” Shaking his head, the rogue faced forward and started to nudge his horse to pick up into a trot.

At first, Anders wanted to slink down into his saddle and submit. He felt a wave of distress clench up his muscles, hearing the dull thud of his heart in his ears. Some fire flashed alight in his chest, though, and on a whim, he snatched out a hand to grab ahold of Hawke’s cloak and tugged.

The grasp stopped Hawke’s foot in mid-kick. His hood tumbled down from his head, baring his face to the sun, and the scowl that had begun to take root on his face disappeared in an instant, revealing slight surprise. He met Anders’ gaze, reading the frustration on the mage’s fine features.

“No. Talk to me, love.”

Hawke sat there, both silent but for the clopping of their horses’ hooves on the earth, both still but for the gentle sway of the beasts beneath them. There seemed a barricade between them that Anders had never felt before; a line, a space. Something intangible and yet so very real. His hand on Hawke’s cloak felt like an invasion. That frightened him.

And then Hawke sighed.

His expression fractured somewhere, turning tired and raw in a way Anders hadn’t seen for a long time. He slid a hand up and placed his fingers over Anders’, calloused fingertips gentle when they pried the mage’s grip off his cloak and took its place instead. Their fingers intertwined, drawing into a tight curl until their palms met, hovering in the space between their horses.

Gentle. Loving. Hawke stroked the back of Anders’ hand with his thumb. Anders soaked in every tiny play of emotion over Hawke’s face, reading a kind of wry sadness in the lift at the corner of his mouth. They'd been so caught up in the rebellion... there'd been so little time to hash out their feelings, to cope...

Or maybe there had been time, and they'd just failed to talk about it.

“I’m taking this out on you. I’m sorry.”

Anders moved to shrug a shoulder with his mouth opening to respond, but he could only watch, a smile quickly returning to his face, as Hawke pulled his hand up and brushed his mouth over Anders’ fingertips, laying a kiss on thin digits before letting their hands hang low again.

The gesture was … sweet. Romantic.

“It’s not what you think. I don’t regret everything that’s happened, and I don’t regret following you. I’d do it again without a single thought.” Hawke hesitated, glancing away - though this time, it was his turn to seem troubled. Ashamed?

“I…” the rogue sighed harshly, shaking his head. “It’s selfish, Anders. It isn’t worth discussing. You’ll just take it on yourself and then we’ll both be sullen bastards.”

Anders smiled a little, though it wasn’t without its trepidation. “Perhaps. I’m willing to risk it."

Hawke curled his tongue against his teeth, clicking softly. He let go of Anders’ hand, and the mage bit back a noise of disappointment, watching Hawke rub his face with both hands in wide, slow circles. “I wish I hadn’t invited you to stay at the Estate so often. I think back, and all I can feel is … this … frustration. This longing. In a different world, we could have had that life. Woken up every morning to biscuits and tea and silken shirts we’d immediately ruin with passionate sex.”

A small laugh escaped Anders’ lips before he could stop it, struggling between pleasure at Hawke’s humor and a creeping melancholy at everything else. “I warned you we’d never have that… I’m sorry, Hawke.”

“I know.” the rogue responded, eyes turning down with an irritated sigh. “Doesn’t mean I stop thinking about it. I feel like… it was stolen from us. And I don’t always know who to blame.”

Anders’ lips tugged into a frown, something between sympathy and sadness pooling in his eyes. “I can’t separate myself from this, Hawke. Even if we’d had that life, it’d have been abandoning every moral I’ve ever held. Turning my back on every dead or Tranquil mage that could have been saved if someone like me had _done_ something a long time ago-”

“Maker be damned, Anders, I know! I know exactly how selfish I'm being!”

Hawke's voice was like ice. Anders flinched.

But it was a burst of anger that quickly died away.

The rogue glanced at Anders, eyes dark and lips drawn in a tight line.  “I know how important it is to you. And I’m glad we’re making a difference. I spent my life living in fear of the Templars, too, you know.”

Hawke’s features fell to a vague musing, looking away into the fields that surrounded them. “Carver always hated the fear. He hated being told he had to hide, to keep inconspicuous, when he wanted to make a name for himself. He’d yell, Mother would cry, dinner would get cold. Tragedy.”

That made Anders' frown deepen. Hawke rarely talked about it, and he'd rarely considered Bethany's impact on Hawke's family. He'd always just envied her freedom.

“Bethany and I would sneak out into the woods and she’d make lights. Little sparks of magic, I guess. She’d summon up these tiny glowing dots, and they beaded up on her fingertips. Like stars." Hawke shook his head, chin low this time. “I tried to convince her it was beautiful, but she’d just cry and say ‘we’d be happy if it weren’t for my magic.’ And I couldn’t always argue.”

Anders reached out and slid his hand to Hawke’s shoulder, rubbing.

“I want to do this. And I’m glad I’m doing it with you. We’ll make a better world, Anders. I’m just … tired of building lives for everyone else but us.”

Anders gazed at him, feeling a distant ache in his heart. A peaceful life with Hawke, in a world where nothing bad had ever happened to them… yes, it was sweet temptation. A dream of a dream. Their bodies tangled in velvet sheets with a purring cat draped over their ankles. The fresh air of the hills seemed stale in comparison.

Hawke let the words hang in the air for a moment, before throwing a hand up and drawing his voice into a loose humor. “There. Happy? Your curiousity has been sated. Was it everything you ever wanted?”

The rogue startled subtly when Anders wrapped fingers around his horse’s reins and yanked, pulling the paint to a sudden halt. The horse stamped its feet a few times, bouncing him, but stopped. Hawke’s horse took the cue as well, parade training making the mare keep neatly parallel with its partner.

Anders put his hands on the saddlehorn, shoving up. He swung his leg over and hopped down off the horse to stand between them, keeping the reins in his left hand. Hawke just watched as the mage turned and placed a hand on Hawke’s horse’s flank, starting to find purchase to climb up.

Hawke helped, wordlessly. He shook his foot out of the stirrup, and Anders slid his into it instead, using it as a step. The rogue held out his other hand, palm up, and Anders grabbed it and let Hawke pull him up as he clambered into the saddle behind the other man.

With Hawke between his thighs, their bodies settled flat against one another in a warm embrace. Anders slipped his arms around the rogue’s waist, settling his chin on Hawke’s shoulder. He brushed his lips against his love’s ear. “ _You_ are.”

Anders saw the smile flicker across Hawke’s face. Felt him lean back a little into the embrace.

“I’m sorry, Anders. I wish I wasn’t struggling with this.” the Champion murmured.

Laughing quietly under his breath, Anders stroked Hawke’s chest with a hand, sliding fingers under his cloak to rub at the leather armor underneath. “I can’t give you the life you deserve, but Maker be damned if I won’t give you every kind of happiness I can manage. We’ll find a way, love. Maybe we’ll go to Fereldan and help the revolution sparking there. Slip into Orlais and have a little adventure together. Aveline could give us some tips on where to go, I’m sure.”

Hawke snorted, taking the reins of Anders’ horse from the mage now snuggled behind him. He looped them around the saddlehorn between his knees so the horses were tied together, and kicked a heel gently into his golden mare’s ribs.

It started off into a smooth walk, Anders’ horse keeping pace beside them. “They went for a honeymoon. Are you hinting something?” Anders went a little red, glad Hawke couldn’t see his face. He gawped his lips a few times, settling on a mumbled response.

“I’m not _not._ ”

Hawke laughed, genuinely, and Anders felt a gentle peace settle through him. They’d be alright. “Give me some time. I won’t waste the life we have pining for the one we could have had. I just … need time.”

Anders buried his face against Hawke’s neck, ear tickled by the rogue’s thick beard. “That much, we have.” He inhaled, enjoying the heady smell of the other man’s body, and lost himself to the sway of the horse beneath them.

Neither of them could know, naturally, that across the Waking Sea, an exceedingly tired dwarf was hovering a quill over parchment, trying to decide how to even begin.


End file.
